Reality
by Characterless
Summary: Three phases of Castiel's life always repeating themselves in a circle he calls reality. And the only person they involve. Warning: boyxboy story, blood, AU, general crappiness, sex, dirty talking, M for speech


**Category:** Supernatural

**Characters**: 2014!Castiel, 2014!Dean(mentioned)

**Genre:** Psychological, Tragedy, Darkfic

**Warning:** boyxboy story, blood, AU, general crappiness, sex, dirty talking, M for speech

**Concept:** Three phases of Castiel's life always repeating themselves in a circle he calls reality. And the only person they involve.

"-"

Sometimes when he takes too many pills, he dreams.

He dreams of another reality, of a past, of the times when Dean cared, when he was kind, when he was righteous.

He dreams of soft Dean, of gentle Dean. Of Dean's eyes as he casts them at Sam, always lovingly, sometimes angrily as big brother ought to be.

He dreams of Dean who cared for him, who loved him as family.

Those nights, awakening is hard, surreal. They feel rough and dirty.

When he does, he usually wakes to find five or more people on his bed, on his couch, on his carpet, lying sleeping. Post-coital. For a single moment able to forget the stink of apocalypse.

Those days he pulls Absinthe from under his bed, not sugar coating it and he takes a big slug from it to strengthen him.

He wakes someone mostly by licking their cunt or sucking their dick (depending on the gender) more often than not. Some of the regulars even know that those times it's better to be rough, neglecting his needs, taking him dry, cruel, so he can feel the floor beneath his knees, so he can feel splinters in his back and chunks of his hair absent.

Those times he begs for it with his eyes, his mouth his body like a whore. Slut of heaven as Present Dean likes to say.

He bents like a whore, let's himself be fucked like a whore leaving reality behind him. The painful reminder of his heart's desire.

After those times, of course he feels ashamed, can't look the other person in the eyes, says nothing, getting up and leaving the hut.

Sometimes he meets Dean outside, his hut right in front of his cleaning his guns, looking out for people

It's not his Dean anymore.

His Dean would notice blood dripping from his body traveling all the way down his thighs. He would notice his limping and even his look.

That Dean is no longer there.

So we walks, he walks to the river, to the freezing cold river and he submerges himself into the cold. He feels, he feels pain, he feels cold and reality is back slapping him in the face like a bitch it is.

He often prays for undercurrent to take him, take him down, and wash him away.

It never does.

"-"

Some night he does not dream of Dean at all because his nightmare comes to his hut and talks strategy, the colt, Michael and Lucifer. Asks him about angels, feigning interest. Making small talk, probably remnant of some memories their fearless leader has.

He often wishes for Dean to kiss him, take him to his bed, ravish him or even better gently lay him on the bed and make love to him.

It never happens.

Those nights when Dean leaves, he sings soft Enochian lullabies he once heard angels sing to fledglings in heaven.

He sings softly, while he scoops the powder, puts it on the spoon and melts it.

Cocaine is so rare and hard to obtain, he only chooses to do this on night when Dean comes knocking on his doors.

He only has a pack of it and it's probably the last crack he's going to find in a long time so he saves it.

He injects it and leaves the world and all his worries, vaporizing the worries, feeling happy, sated, loved.

He even sings more Enochian sometimes in loud clear voice of angels.

There's no one to hear him anyway.

Coming down is hardest part.

It is hope and desolation.

The plunge like his falling oh his heavenly pedestal, his corrupt soul ripped apart from his grace.

He contemplates taking his life, taking all the pills at once, drinking all the booze and just letting go.

He never does.

There is always greed, screaming lust to see him one more time. To feel the air around him, almost taste his scent on his tongue.

"-"

There are good days when he feels like he could almost forget

When the clinical depression that the whole camp is suffering from is lighter, when he does not see Dean and those times he remembers he needs to be loved, he craves for it

Those times the orgies are phenomenal, all his "customers" leaving satisfied all parties happy, fulfilled, sated.

He loves those days.

He feels free.

His freedom can last even after the arrival of him, his happiness making even Dean smile, forming his face into something beautiful. It is the face Castiel fell from grace for.

But soon enough reality comes barging at the doors, leaving blood on their doorstep.

Dean stops smiling, fucks around women, after women, never him.

Cas starts drinking more and more, taking pills and down it goes again.

It's like a vicious circle

Dream,

Reality,

Freedom,

And dream again.

And it feels like it never ends.

Always giving him reason to get up in the morning

And then striking him down

Because after all.

Reality is bitch


End file.
